


Holding Pattern

by sparkyeureka (sparkycap)



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: 5 Times, Canonical Character Death, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 12:42:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11623779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkycap/pseuds/sparkyeureka
Summary: Someone probably should have told Herc Hansen that better late than never is an expression, not a sustainable parenting model.





	Holding Pattern

**Author's Note:**

> Basically "five times Herc sort of forgot to be a parent and made up for it a little late, plus one time he never got the chance to make up for it."  
> Couple notes: 1) I'm _really_ not Australian. It shows. Tried my best with the dialogue, but everything else, well.  
>  2) There's some Chuck/Mako, but despite the kissing it's really not all that romantic, so a tag felt superfluous, but here's your warning in case that's really not your thing.

1.

Chuck is sixteen, and he’s late.

It’s the way of teenage boys, from what Herc remembers. He’d never been that way himself, already well on the way to a long military career and all the discipline that required, but Scott couldn’t show up on time to save his life—still couldn’t as a grown man, not for anything less than a deployment. It was one of the many things about his little brother that drove Herc crazy, and he sincerely hopes his son isn’t taking after him in this.

He figures it’s a good sign that Chuck has never been anything but serious when it comes to his own career, that and the fact that he slips through the conference room door thirty seconds before the meeting starts, which is late by Herc’s standards but technically on time.

Then again, his brand new dress uniform is missing the tie.

Herc doesn’t have time to do anything more than give him a pointed look before the video conference starts. The video conference where they convince the PPDC to continue letting a teenager pilot a machine worth billions of dollars, and said teenager can’t be fucked to put on a tie.

Chuck gives him a petulant little glare in return, the exact same look he used to give him when he was five years old and Herc told him it was time for bed. And then he straightens up and his expression smooths over, and quite suddenly he looks every inch the promising young ranger he’s been for almost half a year now.

Sixteen, and he hasn’t bagged his first kill yet but it’s only a matter of time, and Herc can only distantly remember a time when the world wasn’t at war with monsters and he would’ve been the first in line to punch himself straight across the face for letting his kid out on the front lines like this.

Angela would’ve killed him for it twice over, but then there are days Herc feels like he only distantly remembers her too. Parts of her, anyway, her disapproving frown and that tone she’d get when she told him for the third time that he can’t teach a nine-year-old boy how to put someone in a chokehold, the way she’d roll her eyes when he laughed and said c’mon, Angie, it’s not like he’ll be able to _do_ it.

The way she said _I told you so_ when they got a call from Chuck’s school about the unfortunate incident at recess that day.

Now that he thinks about it, Herc feels about the same way now he did back then—some strange mix of regret and wild, overwhelming pride.

Pride so thick he chokes on it just a little, the right words sticking in his throat as they walk out the door. Chuck makes to walk away, and Herc grabs him by the arm. The kid shakes him off with far more violence than is really necessary, but he stops moving. And Herc really means to say something else first—tell him he did good in there, tell him he’s proud, tell him every parent thinks their kid is special but a whole committee just confirmed that Herc’s kid very much is—but what comes out is: “Where’s your tie?”

Chuck works his jaw like he’s working up to a real tirade, but then he just says, “Lost it.”

“You lost it,” Herc repeats.

“Yes,” Chuck grits out. “Why do you think I was late?”

He doesn’t see Chuck at all the rest of the day. Some of the engineers tell him at dinner that the kid has been in Striker’s bay all afternoon, but Herc hasn’t worried about him getting in anyone’s way there since he was thirteen. Growing up with the machines means Chuck knows his way around a jaeger better than half the j-techs, so Herc just asks if one of them wouldn’t mind taking some food back and leaves him to it.

There’s a good chance he won’t see him until tomorrow. Like as not Chuck won’t make it back to their quarters until after Herc’s in bed, if not after he’s already left the next morning.

What he does see is his son’s missing tie.

It’s been shoved hastily under his pillow, something Herc only notices because he’d made Chuck take the top bunk and the blue fabric is sticking out right at eye level against the crisp white sheets. Flipping the pillow up reveals a tablet and a mangled tie.

Herc checks the tablet. Maybe it’s an invasion of privacy, but with all the time they spend literally inside each other’s head, it can’t be that bad. There’s a video paused on the screen claiming to be an instructional on how to tie a half-Windsor, and a second glance at the wrinkled, twisted tie confirms that Chuck had attempted it more than once.

Probably tried it over and over, knowing his boy, and probably came damn close to putting a fist through the wall when he couldn’t get it right. It occurs to Herc for the first time today that the last time Chuck needed to wear a tie was to his mother’s memorial. Years ago, when he was still a kid and Scott had been the one to tie it around his neck for him.

Herc remembers watching his brother tug on the knot to make sure it held and then ruffle Chuck’s hair—shaggy then, but shorn regulation short not two weeks later per Chuck’s request. He briefly wonders if he can pinpoint that as the exact moment he started letting his kid grow up way too fast.

Then he carefully untangles the tie, smooths it out as best he can, and ties it into a solid knot. Leaves it on top of Chuck’s pillow like an apology.

Tomorrow he’ll teach him to do it proper.

 

2.

Chuck is seventeen, and he just kissed a girl for the first time.

Probably more accurate to say a girl kissed him, really, and it’s a good thing Chuck’s been too busy saving the world to add sexism to his list of character flaws. Mako always wins more than half the time when they spar, and aside from the crushing blow of failure, he doesn’t mind so much. It’s always a fair fight with her, and he lives for the challenge, the motivation to keep pushing himself harder to get her back for it later.

Kissing between them went about the same way fighting did.

Mako had him flat on his back and out of breath, straddling his waist and looking down at him with a curious expression. Before he could ask what the fuck she was looking at, she’d asked, “Could I kiss you?”

Chuck frowned. “Why’d you wanna do that?”

“Because I never have before,” Mako said promptly. “And I would like to try it.”

“You don’t wanna be my girlfriend or nothing, right?” Chuck asked. He'd be shocked if she did, but better safe than sorry.

“No, thank you,” Mako said.

“All right, then.”

She graced him with a small smile and leaned forward, hands going to the mat above his head. He lost his breath a little. Hell of a position to be in. She paused. “Do you know how best to—”

He shook his head. “Never done it either.”

Mako nodded thoughtfully. Started out soft and light, experimental but not tentative, and didn’t waste any time getting better. He did his best to keep up but let her take the lead, figuring she’d earned it at least for now.

Once she’d had her fill, he gave her a moment to assess her findings, and then he rolled them over, relishing her surprised little laugh, and took his turn.

Things devolved from there.

In Pentecost’s defense, it’s probably difficult from an outside perspective to tell whether they’re fighting or kissing by the time he walks in. They’re sort of doing both, and it probably doesn’t help that Chuck currently has her pressed against the mats while she does her best to reverse their position.

Still, she’s not trying to throw him off, just trying to get on top, and Chuck would appreciate it if Pentecost would take a second to note the difference instead of ordering, "Hansen! On your feet." 

Both he and Mako roll instinctively to their feet at that tone, but Pentecost brushes right passed Mako grab Chuck by his shirt and push him up against the nearest wall. Chuck loses all the air in his lungs for the second time, keeping his fisted hands firmly at his sides because even he knows better than to take a swing at Stacker Pentecost.

“Stacker.” Herc’s voice is quiet, a low warning. Chuck hadn’t noticed him walk in.

Pentecost ignores him. “If that was what I think it was—”

“It wasn’t,” Chuck says as soon as he catches his breath, a few seconds after Mako says the same thing.

“Not now, Mako,” Pentecost says, and Chuck clenches his jaw to keep from saying anything. “If you did _anything_ to my daughter—”

“I didn’t do anything _to_ her,” Chuck says indignantly. He’s never been good at keeping his mouth shut. He looks over Pentecost’s shoulder and meets his father’s eyes. Unreadable as ever, of fucking course, and for one blinding moment Chuck wants to punch him in his stupid unsmiling mouth.

“Sensei, please,” Mako says. “We were only sparring, I was the one who—I started—it was nothing. Please. Let him go.”

And then Herc is there, pulling Pentecost back by the shoulder. “C’mon, mate, you heard the girl.”

And suddenly there’s nothing holding him against the wall, nothing keeping him on his feet except for Mako’s small hand on his arm a second later. “Are you okay?”

“What do you think?” Chuck asks.

She matches his almost smile. “I am sorry for interrupting our training.”

“Yeah, well, I was getting sick of losing.”

“You leave your right side open when you attack,” Mako informs him.

“Well, that’d explain it,” Chuck says, mostly just to buy time while he thinks it over and realizes she’s right. He nods, and she nods back, and that’s about the closest they’ll ever get to thanking each other or talking about it.

Then he walks out.

Doesn’t think to look around or check in with anyone, because call him rude, but he doesn’t owe either of them anything right now. He’s not sure if it’s better or worse that Dad follows him.

It’s a surprise, that’s for sure.

“Chuck—”

“Oh, _now_ you got something to say?”

“Since when do you want me fighting your battles?”

“I don’t,” Chuck snaps. “Whatever.”

Herc gets around in front of him and shoves him back a step, which for them is basically a polite request to pause. “Hey, now, you know anything I said woulda just wasted time. Stacker needed to hear it from her.”

Chuck shoves him right back. “Stacker did, huh?”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Herc says, so emphatic that Chuck shuts his mouth. “Yeah, _Stacker_ did.”

“Because you know—”

“I know. I knew.”

For the first time since Mako took him down, Chuck feels like he can breathe.

Dad grins. “Mako Mori, huh?”

Chuck groans and walks away again.

 

3.

Chuck is eighteen, and his father is a god.

He’s never met Herc’s parents, and whenever anyone asks for the story behind his name, Herc just says vaguely that they had strange taste. The only part of it that really matters is that someone knew what they were doing calling him Hercules, and even Chuck can admit to that.

It drives him fucking insane.

Because it was one thing when he was a kid and hadn’t done shit and his dad was a badass RAAF pilot. Now he’s all grown up, got four kaiju kills under his belt, and he’s still known the whole world over as Herc Hansen’s son. There’s no getting away from that.

Probably doesn’t help that Dad’s his copilot, but what else could he do—like hell was he letting anyone else into his head. Only other viable option might've been Mako, but Pentecost is still shutting that down. Which is a tough break, but the way he sees it she’s at least lucky enough that not everyone knows Pentecost’s her father and not just her mentor.

He’s holding her back now, but one day, when the whole world inevitably knows her name, it’s not going to be because they know his. Chuck’s sure of that.

But Chuck’s not in this for glory, and he’s not even really looking to get away from his father, because he’s not a goddamn idiot—he wants to jockey with the best, and aside from him, he knows who that is. So the worst part of being Herc Hansen's son is mostly the long and storied history of having to prove that he’s not here because of who his father is, he’s here because he’s his father’s son.

Like when Herc is late to training—probably his meeting ran late, because fuck knows nothing short of that or a heart attack is going to throw him off track—and some of the idiots hanging around in the kwoon wasting valuable oxygen decide a good time to start in on Chuck is when he has a weapon in his hands.

Today it’s about the beard.

It takes longer than he’d like for him to realize what they’re even talking about. Dad’s favorite thing about post-military life is not having to shave everyday, but no one’s ever seemed to have a problem with it. In fact, Chuck’s heard way more than he ever wanted to about how much some of the women here appreciate it.

And then someone makes a quip about Chuck trying to look like his daddy and, oh, fuck _that_. So he goes a few rounds—takes them on all three at once, just to challenge himself a little—and then detours immediately back to his quarters. Granted, checking himself out in mirrors is not high on his priority list, but all it takes is a quick feel of his face to get what they're talking about, and he berates himself the whole way there for being so sloppy.

Using Herc’s shaving kit isn’t really going to help his point, but it’s all he’s got on hand. He rubs at his jaw, making a face at the scratchy, unfamiliar feeling, and does his best to remember how this goes from what he’s seen passing his dad on the way in and out of the shower. It occurs to him that he’s probably too old to be doing this for the first time, but then he did get his mother's hair, and from what he remembers she didn’t have a beard.

And yet when he finally looks in the mirror, the scruff on his jaw is distinctly reddish. Yeah, that just fucking figures.

Herc finally shows up right when Chuck starts swearing, dripping blood in the sink and willing to blame the slip of the razor on the sudden sound of the door slamming shut and Herc calling, “You’re skipping training now?”

“You’re the one didn’t show up, old man.” Chuck fumbles for a towel and presses it against the cut on his neck. “Have a stroke or something?”

“Shut it,” Herc says, more out of habit than actual annoyance, Chuck can tell, his blood isn’t up enough for that.

Then he catches sight of his dad’s raised eyebrow in the mirror and realizes too late he didn’t shut the bathroom door. He glares at him around the towel. “Not a word.”

“All right there?” Herc says anyway.

“It was pointed out to me that I needed a shave.”

Herc frowns. “Right, I meant to say something about that.”

“Might’ve been helpful,” Chuck mutters, lowering the towel and picking up the razor again.

“Hold it, c’mere,” Herc says. He nudges Chuck out of the way to get in front of the sink, rinsing the blood out of the basin and then getting the water running warm, reaching into the cabinet for a brush. He holds out a hand for the razor. “Lemme show you.”

“I got it.” Chuck ignores the fact that he has no idea what the brush is for and says, “Not that complicated.”

Herc rolls his eyes and grabs the razor. Chuck lets him. After a few minutes, he asks quietly, “Put anyone in medical?”

“Not this time.”

“Good man.”

 

4.

Chuck is nineteen, and Stacker Pentecost is in Sydney.

It doesn’t have much to do with him, only means he sees his old man a bit less because he’s out cozying up with Pentecost, talking top secret strategy or whatever it is those two do together. It does mean Mako’s around somewhere, which is great, because she’s his second favorite sparring partner and his Japanese has been getting rusty, but today she’s busy doing real work too dull for him to want to tag along on.

Chuck is absolutely not pouting about this when he stumbles upon Dad and Pentecost talking in hushed tones.

When they see him, Pentecost says, “Maybe Chuck can help.”

And, okay, that’s unexpected. Not much of a secret that Pentecost likes him only a little less than he respects him, which is hardly at all. And even that is mostly because he has the great honor of happening to be Herc Hansen’s son.

“Yeah? How so?” his dad asks, doubtful, and yeah, that’s more like it.

“Can we send him out for it?” Pentecost suggests. Usually Chuck would bristle at the thought of being _sent_ anywhere, but he’s got a feeling whatever they’re looking to get has something to do with Mako’s birthday in a few days, so he keeps his mouth shut. “He could take one of the jeeps…”

“Might work,” Herc says.

They both turn to look at him. Chuck shrugs. “Sure, could be fun. Can’t be much harder taking out a car than a jaeger, can it?”

Neither of them say a word. Pentecost stares at him for a long moment, and then he actually smiles. “Am I to understand,” he says to Herc, “that you taught your son to kill kaiju before you taught him to drive a car?”

Chuck protests, “He didn’t _teach_ me to—”

“Taught him to fly a helicopter first,” Herc says, as if Chuck hadn’t even spoken. As if that makes it better, somehow, although a helo is at least more normal than a jaeger. And he’s known the basics of that since he was seven years old, that time when Dad took him up flying for his birthday, but he doesn’t want to think about that. With his luck it’ll show up in the next drift, and Dad’ll spend a week giving him that sad, sorry look, like he thinks Chuck would still rather be that kid than be, say, the youngest ranger to ever step foot in a conn-pod.

“Of course you did,” Pentecost says, all posh accented amusement and, if Chuck’s not mistaken, more than a little fondness. He supposes Herc’s fatherly incompetence is adorable—compared to how good he is at every-fucking-thing else, fucking bastard—if you’re not the one on the receiving end of it.

“Well, no time like the present,” Herc says. Chuck blinks. “Stacker, you coming?”

“You couldn’t pay me.”

Chuck is only sort of offended.

They don’t take one of the jeeps. They take his father’s old truck, the one he’s had as long as Chuck can remember, and he hadn’t even realized they’d kept it. There’s not much call to leave the Shatterdome in anything other than Striker these days.

The cab smells like Sydney’s coast and cigar smoke, and for a moment after opening the door, Chuck is hit by a wave of homesickness so hard he can’t bring himself to get inside.

“Chuck?”

Right, then.

The steering wheel is worn where his father’s hands always rested, and Chuck slams the door behind him with more force than necessary before he finds his own grip. There are motor oil fingertips stained on the gearshift. On the passenger side, the dashboard has a deep groove from where Chuck had once spent half an hour methodically working his new pocket knife into it before Dad noticed. He’d spent the next half hour listening to him yell at Uncle Scott over the phone for secretly giving his kid a pocket knife.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared,” Herc says, and Chuck realizes he’s been spacing out again.

He clears his throat. “You’re gonna regret that.”

Herc laughs. “Just take it slow, yeah?”

Sure enough, there’s absolutely nothing to it. A quick explanation of the equipment, and he’s good to go, has the long empty road from the ‘dome back toward civilization to experiment with jerking the wheel back and forth and controlling his speed. Mostly Herc stays quiet, like always, aside from a few orders to slow the fuck down that Chuck only halfway obeys.

It’s not like he’s going to lose control.

Eventually, just when Chuck’s thinking of asking where they’re actually going, Herc says, “Should’ve done this earlier, huh? Given you a chance to get outta the ‘dome more.”

Chuck frowns at him and ignores the subsequent command to keep his eyes on the road. “Why would I wanna leave the ‘dome more?”

And he’s not sure why this time, but there’s that sad look again. Herc looks away and clears his throat. “For starters, you might take Miss Mori on a proper date.”

Chuck is tempted to slam on the breaks. “Are you _never_ going to let that go?”

Like he’s still inside his head, Dad says, “No causing accidents just to piss someone off, Chuck." 

 

5. 

Chuck is twenty, and he’s hiding like a little kid.

Herc thinks this is a pretty fair comparison, considering how much of Chuck’s childhood he spent losing the kid in various science labs and jaeger bays. Lucky Seven was always his favorite hiding spot, and sometimes Herc thinks he was more upset about losing her than his uncle. Not that they ever talk about either of them.

Back then, Chuck always chose a different place in or near or above Lucky to hole up, and Herc never had the time to search every crevice come dinnertime. Shouting for Chuck to come down usually worked if he kept at it long enough, got his son back by his side sullen and silent as a ghost with Max trailing happily along behind him.

These days Herc knows his son better—because of the drift more than any significant improvement in their relationship, of course, but he’ll take what he can get.

He drops down on the edge of catwalk above Striker’s head, where Chuck is leaning over the railing, Max held tightly in his lap. “You’re getting predictable.”

“You’re not.” Chuck is pointedly not looking at him. “The fuck are you doing here?”

“I dunno, actually. One of the techs told me to come find you, said you were pouting again,” Herc says, because Chuck is being disconcertingly sedate.

Sure enough, that gets him an indignant scowl. “ _Again_?”

“So you’re not denying you’re pouting now, then?” Herc asks, amused.

“Least I’m not outta breath from that climb,” Chuck says.

“I’ll let that one go,” Herc says. “What with you being so fragile right now.”

Even that doesn’t get the reaction he’s expecting. The only time Chuck ever really talks to him is when he’s angry enough, so he figures that’d be the quickest way to get him to tell him what’s wrong. But Chuck only mutters, “I’d throw you off, if I didn’t need a copilot.”

“Like to see you try.”

They sit in silence until Max starts wriggling his way out of Chuck’s arms, trying to get to Herc. And then Chuck says abruptly, “You can go now.”

“What?”

“You were s’posed to find me, you found me. You can go.”

“I thought we might have dinner,” Herc says. He gives Max a good scratch to get him to settle down. “Today being what it is, and all.”

Chuck shoots him a wary look.

“Did you think I forgot?” Herc asks.

There’s a long pause. And then Chuck says cautiously, “Wouldn’t be the first time. Not like it matters.”

And really, he never once forgot. He just wasn’t always there. Somehow he doesn’t think that’s a distinction Chuck would be interested in. “Well, now you know I didn’t, can we go? Or are you not done moping?”

Chuck carefully shifts Max off him and clambers to his feet. “Don’t flatter yourself, old man. Wasn’t thinking about you.”

That, Herc doesn’t have a response for. Now that it’s been stated so plainly, it’s obvious who he has been thinking about.

She would’ve made a big deal out of today, he hopes Chuck knows that. Would’ve spent all last night trying to come up with the perfect cake—because twenty is special, she’d insist, he’s not a teenager anymore, and she’d swat at Herc when he said right, so maybe he’ll finally stop acting like one. Only this morning would she have given in and admitted she couldn’t bake worth a damn and sent him to go buy something. He would’ve pointed out that their kid is all grown up now and probably doesn’t want to spend his twentieth birthday with his parents, and she would’ve insisted on at least a family dinner. Chuck would’ve spent the whole day, because his best friend was a bulldog anyway and he hated disappointing his mother.

Herc grabs the gray cap left forgotten on the walk and reaches up to tug it back onto Chuck’s head, tipping it down over his eyes to make Chuck scowl and bat his hands away.

There’s time to spar before dinner. The first match is a tie, the second Herc lets him win. The third, he’s pissed off enough about Herc going easy on him that he wins fair and square. By the time he’s piling food onto two trays while Herc charms extra dessert out of the mess staff, Herc could swear he’s almost smiling.

It’s not until later that Herc catches a glimpse of a calendar and realizes today is the fifteenth. Chuck’s birthday was yesterday. Dates become less and less important the longer they keep losing this war, but he could’ve sworn today was the fourteenth. He's not sure whether it's worse that he got it wrong, or that Chuck didn't bother to correct him.

Then again, going along with it meant that Chuck either gave up on him or forgave him, and Chuck has never given up on anything.

 

1. 

Chuck is twenty-one, and he’s not going to make it to his twenty-second birthday.

This has always been likely, and they’ve both always been well aware of the possibility, ever since Operation Pitfall started looking more and more like their only option—maybe ever since Scissure hit Sydney, if they’re honest.

Herc always figured he’d be able to do something about it. That he’d be right there in the conn-pod, in the drift, that maybe they’d die but they’d die together, in a real sense of the word. Say what you will about the dangers of piloting, but kaiju’ll kill you whether you’re in a jaeger or not, and copilots are the only people in the world who really don’t die alone.

Instead he’s standing in the middle of LOCCENT with his arm in a sling, useless as all hell, and Tendo Choi is looking at him like they’re the only people in the room and saying, “They’re gonna detonate the payload.”

And suddenly it’s _real_. In a way it hadn’t been when he was seeing Chuck off and staring at his son’s face and thinking, over and over, this might be the last time I see you, and I never got that kind of notice with your mother, but if I did I’d have said—

I’d have said—

“Well my father always said,” Chuck says, steady as anything, “he said if you have the shot, you take it.”

 _My son_ , he’d said to Stacker, before he sent him off to die.

And the thing is, the thing that is only just occurring to Herc now, right when it is exactly too late, is that Chuck had said he’d known all those things Herc had never been able to say, but Chuck is a precocious, arrogant little shit who thinks he knows a lot of things he doesn’t, and for all Herc knows they were talking about two entirely different things.

He’s out of time to ask. There’s a moment where he can say something, a moment that Mako takes and Herc doesn’t, because professionalism is the only thing keeping him on his feet right now, and he can tell his son he loves him or he can make sure they save the world but he can’t do both.

He closes his eyes.

The light on the radar, green for Striker, blinks and disappears.


End file.
